Sound: Such a Pretty Sight
Sandy Lane is a place you can hide your face ’til the dawn of the dayNobody knows your name, everybody’s treated in the
See How He Goes
See how he goes, with words like wandering stars tracing graceful tangents and ellipses.
Finding poetry in late night conversations overheard in bars, red wine and stolen kisses.
Highrise
Simplicity, humility
Are the thoughts that most appeal to me
At the threshold of a window ledge
Along the way
The storm has raged and seethed and sung
And rent the air and left undone
The knots that tie both time and tide
With niceties now cast aside (like pauper’s clothes)
Bruised, spent and fragrant lovers
Linger rapt in sweet repose
You’ve not long
Death awaits at journey’s end
A silent half-thought sentence
Waylaid, suspended in mid-air
Floating neither up nor down, just there
A Sunday Morning
Doesn’t matter that we’re haunted
By the things we’ve said and done
That we still live in the shadows cast
By former friends and lovers
And cower, cold, and shunned by others
A Sunday afternoon
Spare me the middle
Spare me the time spent muddling
The money managing
The taking the time to mind your manners
The skien of your teeth
You can brush your teeth
In the shower
For a good while
It may take an hour
Maybe longer
But by that time
It may not be your teeth
It may be your feet are too big
The shattered ghost-rider
Shadows the clandestine peloton